


Short Notice

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Anthea Ships It [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Meet the Family, POV Greg Lestrade, anthea ships it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24876076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg's used to be picked up by an unprepossessing black car to do whatever it is Mycroft Holmes asks with no questions. When the car takes him to Mycroft's house, something is different. He always said he has Mycroft's back, but this could be the situation that forces both of them to admit things they've long buried deep.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Anthea Ships It [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871896
Comments: 37
Kudos: 185





	Short Notice

Greg sighed. The last thing he needed was to be picked up. Not tonight, when he was tired, and the kind of restlessly grumpy that came from knowing his flat was cold and empty and he had no food in.

But when the car stopped, he still slid in the back without question. His knee still throbbed after a long day, and today was no different. It was Anthea this time; Greg had given up asking her anything so instead he closed his eyes and leaned his head back. Might as well enjoy the ride instead of having to walk through the almost-rain nobody had mentioned on the forecast. Given how often this happened he knew how long it would take to get to Mycroft’s club so when the ride was longer than usual, he frowned. It was dark outside of course, but not so dark he couldn’t tell they were in a very nice part of town, with very nice houses – not flats – and not a posh gentleman’s club in sight.

Turning to Anthea, he tried to decide if he was in the mood to ask her what was going on. Actually it was more if he was in the mood to be ignored. The ride had done him good, smoothed some of the rougher edges off his temper, so he risked it.

“Where are we?”

Anthea put away her Blackberry and turned to him. Greg felt his eyes widen as she regarded him seriously. She never put the Blackberry away, or turned to look at him, and he couldn’t remember when an impish little smile didn’t play around her mouth. This was not good. He swallowed, waiting.

Reaching into the pocket of the seat in front of her, she pulled out a small envelope and handed it to him.

“You will need this,” she said. “Open it now and memorise it. Only the key can go with you.”

She waited while Greg opened the envelope. A single key fell out, one of the fancy ones the bank used to stop people copying them. He frowned at it before unfolding the piece of paper.

  1. _Eye scan_
  2. _Voice recognition – Detective Inspector Lestrade_
  3. _Code – 04011970_



Jesus, what was this? He glanced up at the door of the house outside his window. It was hard to see in the dark but he was pretty sure he could see security cameras.

“The key is for the external door,” Anthea said. She nodded at the paper. “The rest is for the security door inside.”

Greg swallowed again. He had no idea why he was here, and from what he could gather Anthea wasn’t planning on telling him. He ran his eyes over the paper again and handed it back to her. There were questions, but they would have to wait. Mycroft obviously needed him for something, and it was something important if Anthea was behaving like this. Eyes flashing outside again, he turned back to her, waiting to see if there were any other words.

To his astonishment, she looked apprehensive.

“Jesus, what?” Greg blurted.

“If you trust him,” she said, the words almost a whisper, “then…trust him.”

He blinked at the cryptic clue. Figuring she wasn’t going to elaborate – the Blackberry was already back in hand and she wouldn’t meet his eyes – Greg opened the door and stepped onto the wet concrete. He was still looking up at the house when the car slid away. The key in his pocket was a strange shape against his palm, but he drew a deep breath and started up the steps.

The key slid home immediately of course; Greg deliberately didn’t look at security cameras he’d clocked as he approached. There were more than he’d first thought. Mycroft wasn’t messing around.

The front door closed behind him and it triggered lights, blinding in the small space. Greg looked around and realised he was in a tiny room, a door before and behind. Aside from the electronics beside the door in front of him, there was nothing else. No door handles, no windows, nothing. If he couldn’t pass the security in front of him, he was trapped.

 _Jesus. Get on with it, Lestrade._ If it was up to him, there’d be a time limit before people would be informed he was stuck in here.

Stepping hesitantly forward, Greg looked at the screen.

Perhaps it was his weight on a tile in the floor, or his body heat, but a small rounded piece of metal shot out of the wall below the screen. It looked like a spoon, and Greg remembered the first thing on the list. _Eye scan._ Leaning in, he rested his chin on the bowl of the spoon, keeping his eyes open as they scanned his retina. He must have passed, because a smooth, impersonal voice asked,

“Identify yourself.”

Greg cleared his throat. “Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he said self-consciously.

That must have been alright; the screen shifted into the first familiar thing Greg had seen in this whole room. A pin-pad appeared and he remembered the eight-digit code. Same as his birthday, which was weird, but easy to remember at least. He wasn’t going to let himself ponder the likelihood of a coincidence – or what it might mean.

_Probably just changed it so you could remember it._

As his finger hit the last zero, the screen went dark, the lights dimmed to a more normal level, and the door in front of him clicked open. Hesitantly, Greg stepped forward.

The hall was beautiful, of course. Soft lights were reflected in the polished parquetry floor, and the ceiling was at least twelve feet high. Maybe fifteen. He swallowed. Despite its size the space was inviting, but he had no idea what to expect. Was Mycroft being held hostage? Or was he acting on the undercurrent Greg had felt for a long time between them? Surely not. Greg had no idea if Mycroft knew it was there, but the looks they sometimes exchanged, the careful way Mycroft’s hand sometimes rested on the small of his back to guide him…it was not platonic.

_Wait for evidence, Lestrade. Don’t write the story quite yet._

“Mycroft?”

Greg hazarded a call, figuring it was best to at least let whoever was here know he was around. He didn’t want to get shot just for appearing without notice. To his surprise, it sounded like several people exclaimed at his voice. He hadn’t noticed the low sound of voices before this; he assumed the soundproofing in the house was excellent.

Before he could do anything more than ease his scarf from around his neck and begin to unbutton his coat, Mycroft appeared, walking faster than usual. His eyes were pinned on Greg’s and there was a flare of panic he wasn’t used to seeing.

Trust him, Anthea had said.

“Hi,” Greg said. He was prepared to follow Mycroft’s lead, so waited for him to speak.

“Gregory,” Mycroft replied, his eyes holding Greg’s. The expression was complicated, but there was apprehension, hope, panic, and an edge of despair as he stepped closer, hands sliding to grip Greg’s elbows.

_What’s he doing? Calling me Gregory? And why is he so close?_

Greg swallowed, but he smiled and gave a slight nod. Whatever Mycroft needed, he was here.

The message must have been received because Mycroft took a deep breath, and as several people bustled into the hall, their noise was drowned out when Mycroft slid his arms around Greg’s waist and kissed him. It was brief, as kisses go, and hardly something anyone would call passionate. But it was gentle and affectionate, and Mycroft lingered close after their lips had parted.

“Good evening,” Mycroft murmured.

“Good evening,” Greg replied. His hands were on Mycroft’s shoulders, and he didn’t want to break whatever was between them. He was filing every detail away, of course, but his professional brain – the part currently remembering his undercover training – reminded him this was Mycroft’s scene and he needed to wait for his cues. So he stood steady, waiting for Mycroft to speak, which gave him a handy few seconds to reconcile the beating of his heart and figure out what was happening.

_You and Mycroft are meant to be together for some reason. Okay._

“You’re later than I expected,” Mycroft said, easing away. Shielded from the others in the room, his eyes were apologetic and slightly fearful as they met Greg’s again.

“I’m sorry,” Greg replied, filling his smile with affection. “I should have been here earlier. I should have called.”

“No matter,” Mycroft replied. His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly as he realised Greg was going along with whatever was happening. “Why don’t you get yourself settled and I’ll pour you a drink.”

“Mycroft!” The voice from behind was insistent, and Greg almost peered around Mycroft to see from whom it had come.

“Gregory needs a moment,” Mycroft said over his shoulder, shooting Greg an apologetic look. “When he follows us through to the drawing room, I’ll introduce you and you can interrogate him to your heart’s content.”

The woman protested, and Mycroft stepped away from Greg. Blood was rushing in his ears but Greg heard Mycroft say, “Come along, Mother,” as they all exited. Greg concentrated on the back of his head, and Mycroft turned back to meet his eyes, tilting his head to the left as he did. Numbly, Greg nodded.

_Mother._

It didn’t take his experience as a detective to put everything together. Mycroft told his mother he had a partner, and she was here expecting to meet this guy. Greg had no idea if it was him specifically, but he reckoned there were precious few people Mycroft could ask at short notice to pretend to be his partner for the benefit of his family.

_Jesus._

As he shrugged off his jacket and hung it on a hook with his scarf, Greg tried to remember everything from his undercover work. He’d done okay so far; following Mycroft’s lead. Not contradicting him. He had to remember to be vague with details if asked; to defer to Mycroft if necessary; and the most important, behave naturally.

Naturally. As though he and Mycroft were seeing each other. As though he was expected for dinner. So at least six months? No, longer. He had a key, and security clearance. Must be at least a year. Jesus, was he supposed to be living here? That was something he’d need to figure out.

_Don’t complicate it. Keep it simple._

Greg nodded. He emptied his pockets – wallet, badge, his own keys, Mycroft’s spare – and tucked everything into the pocket of his coat. There was no putting it off any longer. He’d committed to this simply by entering the house, and letting Mycroft down was not an option.

_If you trust him…trust him._

Well, Anthea had put it best. Whatever Mycroft’s reasons – personal or professional – Greg was going to back him. Even if it was uncomfortable. Even if it was a little too close to the truth.

With a deep breath, Greg walked down the hall in the direction the group had moved earlier. There were several doors, and Greg peered inside, noting the layout. A library, a wine cellar (seriously?), a powder room (he availed himself of this one), and the last door, from which the sound of people talking, must be the sitting room.

“Gregory!” A voice, well-spoken and clearly delighted, came from his left as he eased himself through the doorway.

“Good evening,” he said, smiling at the woman bearing down on him. She looked exactly as he imagined she would, given her voice. Pearls, hair and makeup careful and subtle, clothes expensive, eyes determined. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Ah, you know what Mycroft is like,” she said, tucking one arm under his companionably. “Such a stickler for punctuality, we were all too frightened to be late lest we miss the first round of drinks!”

Laughter from the man beside her, who raised his glass to Greg. “She’s not wrong!” He was jovial, about three drinks’ worth, Greg estimated. Christ, how late was he exactly? Looking around the room, he realised the rest of the conversation had ceased.

“Hello,” he said, conscious he was choosing his words to be as un-like-himself as possible, “I hope you haven’t waited long. Work does not always stick to a schedule, unfortunately.”

To his immense relief, Mycroft appeared and pressed a champagne flute into his hand. “I explained on your behalf,” Mycroft said, easing Greg away from the woman with a smile. “Murders are so ill-considered these days.”

“They are,” Greg replied. “Thank you,” he added, raising the glass to his lips.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Mycroft?”

With a tight smile, Mycroft turned. “Mother, may I present Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, of Scotland Yard?”

Greg resisted the urge to bow, but nodded instead. “Lovely to meet you.”

“Gregory, this is Hilde Holmes, my mother.”

“Please, call me Hilde,” she said. “The alliteration was an unfortunate outcome of my marrying for love instead of money. My father was appalled.”

“And this is my father,” Mycroft said, evidently giving up on the formalities. “Alexander Holmes.”

“Sir,” Greg said, reaching out to shake the hand extended to him.

“Good to meet you finally,” Alexander boomed. “I’m Alexander, if you can struggle all the way to the end, or Holmes if you can’t.”

“Never Alex, though dear, it’s far too common,” Hilde added.

“Of course,” Greg replied with a smile. Had Mycroft’s mother just called him dear? He knew he was still smiling as Mycroft introduced him to twin aunts and a cousin, over from Switzerland and staying with the Holmes’.

“When Hilde told us she was dining with Mycroft and his lover-”

“-partner, Mother!” Claire responded with an apologetic glance at Mycroft. He shook his head at his cousin as her mother continued,

“-we simply couldn’t miss the chance to meet the man who secured Mycroft away from continuing the family name!”

“I’m a Holmes, remember?” Claire pointed out. “I can continue the family name as well as anyone.”

“Well it’s not the same, is it dear?” her mother replied.

The conversation veered off as the women were distracted by the new topic. Greg was already confused about which twin was which. He thought Alicia might be Claire’s mother, which would make Sophia the other, but he wasn’t certain. Either way, Hilde was quite happy to join the conversation with her sisters-in-law, while Claire made a valiant effort to dispute their assertion that only a name passed through the male line was worthwhile. Greg eased back, realising he was standing beside Mycroft’s father.

“Never would have thought I’d have two sons and not a grandchild in sight,” Alexander said, watching the women with a shake of his head. He turned to Greg. “Not too worried, if I’m honest,” he said with a wink. “Rather my sons were happy than fertile, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” Greg said, without a clue. He still felt like he was playing catch-up.

“And Claire is as good an heir as any,” Alexander replied. He glanced at Greg. “She’s the closest relative,” he explained. “Her daughter’s at school, another headstrong Holmes paving the way for women.” He looked pleased with himself. “So, the boys will get the pile when I kick off, but then it will be Claire’s.”

“She’s much younger than Mycroft and Sherlock,” Greg said. Rephrasing verified information was a good way to appear to know things, he remembered from his training. And it gave him some space to get his head right.

“Yes, well the twins are much younger than me,” he said, “and Alicia was almost thirty when she had Claire.” He said it as though she was practically over the hill, Greg registered. What an interesting mix of progressive and old-fashioned views. He wondered how Mycroft dealt with his parents.

“Where did Mycroft go?” Greg asked.

“Probably checking on dinner,” Alexander replied. “Likes to keep on top of things, Mycroft.”

“Yes,” Greg replied.

“And how did you meet Mycroft?” Alexander said. Greg’s heart pounded until Alexander went on, “He wouldn’t tell us a thing. Insisted we wait until you were both here.”

“Yes, he said he didn’t want to repeat himself,” Hilde broke in. Mycroft entered the room, and she exclaimed, “Myke! Come and tell us how you and Gregory met!”

“I told my parents I must wait for you,” Mycroft told Greg, the apology still in his eyes. “Lest I make a mistake and you not be present to correct me.”

“How considerate you are,” Greg said with a smile. He stepped closer, their shoulders brushing. “Well, let’s not keep them waiting.” He turned to see the other women had joined them. “You start, Mycroft. I’ll make sure you’re not embellishing anything.”

Mycroft nodded. He was still looking at Greg, though he addressed his family. “Gregory and I first met in a professional capacity,” he began. “He and Sherlock started working together and I was liaising between them for a period.”

Greg smiled. Mycroft was good. Very, very good. He’d managed to keep exceptionally close to the truth without mentioning the kidnapping, Sherlock’s drug use, or any of the illegalities generally associated with their relationship.

_That intellect is still as attractive as it ever was._

“We used to meet at Mycroft’s club,” Greg continued, drawing on the truth as he added, “to talk about Sherlock, of course.”

“Of course,” one of the aunts echoed, and the women tittered, while Alexander smirked indulgently.

Mycroft shrugged. “One thing led to another, shall we say,” he said, “and the rest is history.”

Alexander raised his glass, clearly satisfied by the story, but Hilde’s protestation rose above the aunt’s sighs of contentment.

“Mycroft!” she exclaimed. “That’s no way to tell the story.” She turned to Greg. “Come now, fill in some of the details, Gregory. When was the first night you knew something was _there_?” She leaned on the last word, eyes bright with anticipation.

“It was…” Greg started, and pretended to think. “How long now?” he asked Mycroft, leading him to provide the details.

“Several months,” Mycroft said. “The weather had just begun to turn, if I recall.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, continuing the thread. “Because I was wearing a coat. First time after summer, and I came into the club late and I was apologising.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. His eyes were on Greg’s, picking up the story and holding his gaze at once. “I had to brush the water from your shoulders.”

Greg found himself smiling at the images it brought into his mind. It wasn’t real, but he could imagine it just the same. “You stood much closer than usual,” he continued. “And our eyes met.”

“They did,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg could see his smile mirrored on Mycroft’s face. A thrill ran through him when Mycroft’s eyes dropped to his mouth, and he knew Mycroft noticed. Carefully, quite aware of the family scrutiny, he leaned in, dropping the lightest of kisses on Mycroft’s lips.

“There was no denying our connection,” Greg said. He deliberately waited a beat before turning to Hilde and saying, “And the rest is history.” He smiled at her. “I hope you understand that I don’t kiss and tell, Hilde.”

She smiled delightedly at him. “Of course not, Gregory,” she said. “See?” She admonished her son. “That’s how you tell a story.”

“Yes, Mother,” Mycroft replied.

Greg turned to grin at Mycroft, but there was something in his expression to make him pause. A question, not yet ready to be asked, but the shadow of it at the back of grey eyes. Greg felt his grin fade a little as concern flared, but he quashed it and forced his lips wider instead. Against his better judgement he allowed some of his real affection past the boundary, hoping it would reassure Mycroft.

A sliver of reaction betrayed his surprise; Greg saw his eyebrow flicker, but it was quickly covered. Mycroft cleared his throat and looked over at his family.

“I believe our meal will be served directly,” he told everyone.

Greg was almost worried until Mycroft’s hand found his as everyone made their way into the hall. He took the opportunity to meet Mycroft’s eyes, and what he saw was arresting.

_Apology. Gratitude. Regret. Tension._

Finally, Mycroft spoke.

“Shall we?” he said, fingers sliding into Greg’s.

“Sure,” Greg replied.

The conversation flowed as they ate. Mycroft’s mother and aunts carried the conversation and it was easy enough to follow along, smiling and laughing as they talked. Mycroft and Claire were obviously used to the rolling conversation, the women talking over each other, Alexander offering his opinion almost as an aside. Greg tried to keep up, but the dips into family history and Claire’s muttered comments to Mycroft in French were distracting.

When the family conversation veered into a debate over the location of some ancestor’s memorial tree, Greg turned to Mycroft. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, thank you,” Mycroft said, but it sounded like an automatic reply.

Greg raised one eyebrow, muttering in French, “I would have thought your Mother understood French.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Moderately well,” he replied, his French accent perfect. “I didn’t know you do.”

“With a name like Lestrade?” Greg said, smiling and leaning on the Gallic pronunciation.

“She would never admit it, but her hearing is not what it was,” Mycroft replied, leaning closer. “She can’t hear us from here. And certainly not in French.”

Greg nodded, grinning. He was well aware of how he and Mycroft must look. Heads bowed together, smiling at each other, sharing murmured words. “How long are they in London?”

“Long enough,” Mycroft replied. “Just this evening, thank goodness.” He smiled. “At the Windsor Hotel, of course.”

The words seemed to hold another meaning. Greg knew if they were intimate – if they really were lovers – the insinuation would be clear.

_Tonight. We can be together tonight._

Much as he wanted to reply, Hilde drew Greg back into the conversation and he sat up, still very aware of Mycroft beside him. As the evening eased into dessert, Greg could feel Mycroft relax. They’d agreed on enough of the details of their past to satisfy Mycroft’s family, and it seemed the focus was now more on Claire and her daughter than Mycroft.

“Scotch or Brandy?” Alexander rose from the table, speaking to Greg as he steadied himself. “Mycroft always keep the Scotch I like.”

“I think I’m alright,” Greg said, aware he was skirting the edges of tipsy already. “But I’ll come with you.”

“Oh we don’t stand on ceremony, dear,” Hilde said. “We’ll all have a little tipple.”

The whole party stood up, moving towards the library.

“I feel like I’m in an Agatha Christie novel,” Greg murmured to Mycroft as they walked. “Drinks in the library?”

“A little dramatic, Gregory,” Mycroft replied, though a smile played around his mouth.

“Professional drawback,” Greg returned, slipping his hand into Mycroft’s. “So good of you to tolerate me.”

“He doesn’t just tolerate you, Gregory,” one of the aunts said, coming up behind them. “That look in his eyes, that’s real affection.”

Greg felt fingers tighten in his. He could see the anxiety in Mycroft’s expression, but before either of them could say anything, the aunt disappeared into the powder room. The fingers didn’t relax, and Greg made an executive decision. He opened the next door, bumping Mycroft into the wine cellar. Automatic lighting turned on when they entered, and tiny LEDs along the floor and ceiling illuminated their faces. When the door closed behind them Mycroft turned to face Greg, his face guarded.

“Gregory,” he began, but Greg interrupted whatever he was going to say.

“Not now,” he said, sensing a heavy conversation. Instead he used his other hand to ease Mycroft’s fingers free. Carefully, he wrapped his both hands around Mycroft’s, curling the long fingers inward under his own. He could hear Mycroft breathing, harsh in the small space.

“What…”Mycroft trailed off.

“Relax,” Greg said, pitching his voice low. “One drink in the library, I’ll act tired, you’ll get everyone to leave and we’ll be done.” Mycroft opened his mouth to speak again, but gentle pressure of Greg’s hands over his stopped him from speaking. “We’re okay, Mycroft. I trust you.”

His mouth opened again, but Mycroft didn’t speak. Finally, he nodded. Greg’s heart jumped as Mycroft’s free hand settled over his, a silent acceptance. They stood for a moment in the space, eyes locked until Mycroft broke it, their hands parting as he stepped back.

“I’m guessing we’ll have been missed,” Greg said when they stepped back into the hall. “And they’ll have ideas about what we’ve been doing.”

“Of course they will,” Mycroft murmured. He halted several steps from the library door. Carefully, he turned, taking Greg’s hand. “You trust me?”

“Yes,” Greg replied.

Mycroft hesitated. “You trust that I have a reason for my actions?”

“I do,” Greg said. The back of his neck was tingling as he felt Mycroft lead toward something, but there was no way he’d back out. Not now.

Mycroft nodded and when his lips parted, Greg was certain he was going to speak. At least until Mycroft leaned close, his hands cupping Greg’s face. One inch from being kissed, Greg understood and his mouth echoed Mycroft’s shape. The kiss was deep and slow with an edge of desperation. Greg had to hold on, arms sliding under Mycroft’s shirt. His mind was full of Mycroft, the heat of their bodies and mouths warming him to his core. When the kiss eased, Greg felt himself chasing it; Mycroft relented for one long stroke before pulling back.

If Greg thought he had questions before, now his mind was full of them. He opened his eyes to search for Mycroft, wondering what he might find to answer some of those questions. He saw plenty, but none of answered his questions.

“Forgive me,” Mycroft whispered shakily. He sounded as dazed as Greg felt. “We will now look sufficiently…I believe the term is, ‘mussed’.”

“Mussed,” Greg repeated. He certainly felt mussed, every cell sitting differently than it ever had. He took a deep breath and smiled at Mycroft. Carefully, he shifted Mycroft’s tie until it was off-centre. “Perfect.”

Mycroft stiffened when Greg’s hand reached for him, but he relaxed at Greg’s muttered assessment. Carefully, he laced their fingers together again, and Greg was relieved they were not as tight as earlier.

_He’s less worried._

“They’ll be waiting,” Mycroft murmured.

Greg smiled. His heart pounded as they walked into the library together. His blush was real as they were greeted with knowing smiles and a clap on the back from Alexander. The conversation paused Alexander played host, pouring Scotch and Brandy. Greg and Mycroft sat themselves on one small sofa. Greg could feel the heat from Mycroft’ thigh close to his. When Hilde spoke to him Greg forced his mind away from the sensation.

“I beg your pardon?” he said, turning to her.

“I said, you and Mycroft seem very happy together,” she repeated, smiling at him affectionately.

“We are,” Greg answered. “We’re taking things slowly, but so far so good.”

“Well we hope to see you at Christmas,” Hilde told him. “Myke always comes alone. Even last year,” she said, and her admonishing gaze was for both of them. “Christmas is for family, Gregory.”

Gregory smiled, reaching without looking to Mycroft’s knee.

_Stay calm. I’m here._

“What do you usually do for Christmas, Greg?” Claire asked.

Greg shot her a grateful look. “I usually work,” he told her, conscious of the whole room listening. “A lot of the crew have kids and stuff. So I do a double, and that means I can get New Year’s off.”

“Do you do something on New Year’s then?” she asked.

Greg’s heart sank. He’d phrased his answer carefully, hoping she wouldn’t ask – but she had.

_I work New Year’s, too._

As he blinked at Claire, Greg felt Mycroft’s hand steal on his. The gentle pressure was enough to make him look at Mycroft, wondering if they’d be able to exchange meaningful looks discreetly while the whole room was watching. To his surprise, Mycroft was looking at him with open emotion. His eyes were gazing deeply into Greg’s, and Greg could see he was ready to read whatever Greg wanted to share.

_Follow his lead._

Greg hesitated, but _I trust you_ floated through his mind. With a deep breath, he allowed his discomfort to show. A hand over Mycroft’s, a tight smile, and when Mycroft’s fingers pressed in again, he knew the message was received.

“Gregory has little family, none of it close,” Mycroft answered his mother, though his eyes remained on Greg’s, soft as he held them. _Trust me._ Greg could feel it as Mycroft continued, “He works double shifts on Christmas and New Year’s, allowing others to spend time with their families.”

_How does he know I do that?_

Greg swallowed, the truth of Mycroft’s words still biting even for their kind utterance. He tightened his own fingers over Mycroft’s. The emotion rising in his throat was surprising and he knew it was real. Mycroft’s kindness was genuine, even if this scene was a lie. Greg’s smile was genuinely wobbly, and he allowed Mycroft to take over the conversation for a moment on his behalf.

“So you are welcome of course,” Hilde was saying when Greg tuned back in. “Perhaps you and Mycroft can co-ordinate some time to come up. It certainly sounds as though you’ve earned a Christmas off!”

Greg laughed, but it was forced. “I don’t know if it works that way, Hilde, but I certainly appreciate your invitation.” He smiled at Mycroft. “I’m sure we can find time to visit sometime around the New Year.”

“Our home is very comfortable,” Hilde said. “Restful.” Her face lit up. “If you ever injure yourself again you would be welcome to recuperate with us,” Hilde said. “We did miss you at my birthday party.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Greg replied.

“Well, Mycroft told us about your wrenched knee,” Hilde said. “I’m sure it would have been very painful.”

“Yes,” Greg replied automatically.

_How does she know about my knee?_

“Do you come to London for Christmas?” Greg asked Claire, hoping to change the subject.

“No,” one of the aunts said, in a tone of disappointment only a mother could manage. “She and Sarah remain in Europe.”

“Mother is very disappointed,” Claire said pointedly to her mother. “Sarah and I chose a different city each year. We spend a few days at a fancy hotel, visit the Christmas market wherever we are.”

“Ah,” Greg said, sensing a family discussion in the air. He didn’t know what else to say, but Claire and her mother started what sounded like a well-worn discussion about the way she was raising her daughter. Greg glanced at Mycroft, shifting awkwardly. He’d forgotten they were more or less holding hands until Mycroft’s thumb swiped across the back of his hand. It paused before retracing its path, a slow silent measure of support.

The conversation shifted again, the family shifting into reminiscences. It allowed Greg to sit back, very conscious he and Mycroft had left their hands tangled together. Slowly Greg relaxed, his spine curving as he allowed his shoulders to drop a little.

“You look tired,” Mycroft said.

Remembering their earlier conversation, Greg nodded. “Early start this morning, remember?”

Carefully Mycroft leaned forward to his father. “Gregory is working very long hours, Father,” he said. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if he retired for the evening.”

Alexander didn’t pause, giving his son and Greg a knowing look. “Well, it has been a lovely evening, Mycroft,” he said, cutting across the women’s conversation.

He rose, draining his glass before turning to Claire and her mother. They’d stopped their conversation when he stood up, and after a beat of silence everyone’s voices sounded at once. The women all stood, clamouring to thank Mycroft for his hospitality and kiss Greg, welcoming him to the family. He and Mycroft rose to accept the kisses and handshakes, and Greg couldn’t help the trickle of relief that began as soon as everyone moved into the hallway.

Mycroft punched in a code on the discreet keypad by the door while Hilde pulled Greg to her one more time. When she continued their embrace he felt Mycroft’s hand steal into his, helping ease him away to stand beside Mycroft instead. A moment later two security people appeared to escort the family to their cars. A final round of farewells, and the door closed behind everyone. The noise echoed around the space before fading.

Greg blinked, wondering if the visitors were even real.

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmured.

As he turned Greg realised he and Mycroft were still holding hands. He eased his fingers free, shaking them self-consciously.

“Yeah?”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “I suppose a level of explanation might be in order.”

“Might be,” Greg replied. Mycroft was clearly wrestling with where to begin, so Greg suggested, “Another drink?”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, relieved.

They walked back into the library. Greg thought he’d been on high alert most of the evening, but now his attention was focused entirely on Mycroft. There was nobody else to worry about. It was just the two of them, and all Greg had to concern himself with was Mycroft.

He watched long fingers take up the Brandy decanter and pour a drink, and then another. They wrapped around the glasses and Mycroft made his way back across the room.

“Thanks,” Greg said, though he wasn’t sure he could take another drink. His fingers brushed Mycroft’s as they transferred the glass and even after the intimacies they’d shared it made him shudder.

This wasn’t pretence anymore. The audience was gone. Whatever happened now was real.

Mycroft raised the glass to his lips, taking a drink deep enough to warrant closing his eyes as he swallowed. When they opened, they landed immediately on Greg’s.

“I must offer you my deepest apologies.” Mycroft’s voice was low and level, but the distress on his face betrayed how upset he actually was by all this.

“For what?” The question came out before Greg could stop it.

Mycroft’s mouth dropped open, hovering a second before he could respond. “For…this evening,” he replied.

“Mycroft, you have never apologised for picking me up off the street, not telling me where I’m going or what I’m doing when I get there,” Greg said. He wanted to keep this light if possible. Prevent any uncomfortable declarations he might blurt out. “Why are you starting now?”

Greg was expecting a flippant answer, or something smooth and inconclusive. A smirk was a given, if he was going to bet on it.

And had he bet, he would have lost.

Mycroft’s face remained sombre and it took him a few seconds before he spoke. “This is different,” he said. “A request far more personal than professional.”

“True,” Greg allowed. He didn’t reply right away, looking for the right words, but nothing came to mind. Instead he waited, wondering what Mycroft would say.

_What could justify so much guilt in his eyes?_

Mycroft shifted, his eyes still on Greg. It was clear he was using all his skills to gather information, so Greg stood still. Mycroft was obviously upset about the evening, more so than Greg, and it must be important for him to be showing so much.

“My apology was not for picking you up off the street, nor for the secrecy in which it was conducted,” Mycroft said when it became evident Greg was not going to speak. “It was for the position in which I placed you when you entered my home.”

Greg nodded slowly. He didn’t know how to reassure Mycroft that there were no hard feelings without telling him why specifically, but there was little choice but to try.

“It’s fine,” Greg said, but Mycroft did not look convinced.

_Shit._

He tried again, mentally apologising if he was dropping Anthea in hot water. “Before I got out of the car, Anthea asked me if I trusted you.” He watched Mycroft’s hand lift his glass. It shook; not hard, but enough to be noticeable. “Obviously the answer was yes. Is yes, or I wouldn’t have come inside.” He swallowed hard and took a second to accept he was leaving himself open to discussing the tension undercutting this whole evening. “And I’m guessing that you trust me or you wouldn’t have asked me to help you.”

Mycroft nodded. He looked like he was about to pass out, and Greg watched as he reached backwards for the arm of the sofa, steadying himself before leaning back to rest against it.

“There is nobody I trust more highly,” Mycroft said quietly.

“And so in I came,” Greg said. “Ready for anything.” He could have tried for a lighter tone but didn’t want Mycroft to think he was mocking him.

“Surely you did not anticipate…” Mycroft trailed off.

“No,” Greg said, “of all the scenarios I thought it might be, this was not one.”

_Thinking and hoping are not the same…_

“Hence my apology,” Mycroft replied.

“Hey,” Greg said. Without thinking, he took Mycroft’s glass and set it on the table. It brought him close enough for his shoes to nudge Mycroft’s toes. “No apology is necessary,” he said quietly.

“While I admit I have asked many things of you in the past, this was-”

“Different,” Greg interrupted, raising his eyebrows. “Personal.”

“As I said,” Mycroft said.

Greg tilted his head. They were going around in circles. Mycroft clearly felt this was more distressing than Greg did, so he needed to find a new angle. Change the angle of the conversation.

“So, why did you need someone anyway?” Greg asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft asked.

Greg let him catch up before explaining, “Your family was expecting someone. I mean, expecting you to be expecting someone.”

“They were,” Mycroft said, his face flushing hard. He shifted, and Greg would have given him space if Mycroft made to stand up. Greg’s eyes were drawn to Mycroft’s hands, fingers flexing into the leather of the sofa.

“Me?” Greg asked, wincing at the narcissism implicit in his question.

Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes. “Initially, no.” He breathed deeply. “I may have…implied I was seeing someone a number of months ago. With my family living primarily out of the city it was easy enough to avoid specific details.”

“Until they all decided to visit,” Greg murmured.

“Precisely,” Mycroft said. “With very little notice.” He sighed. “So little notice I was barely able to ask for your help, let alone arrange to have you briefed properly.”

Greg nodded. “Things change fast sometimes,” he said quietly. “I get that.”

There was something not quite right about…something. Something Mycroft said. No, something someone else said. He waited until his brain brought up the relevant phrase.

_I’m sure it would have been very painful._

“Wait,” Greg said suddenly, his knee twinging. Mycroft opened his eyes, looking at Greg apprehensively. “Your mother’s birthday. Was that the same weekend I wrenched my knee?”

Watching Mycroft’s expression change from so close was fascinating. He was usually so circumspect, and yet right now Greg could see his emotions flicker across his face. They moved fast, and Greg’s brain was only a second behind. When the truth came to him it was fully formed, and he couldn’t stop his lips forming the words.

“You told them about me before today.”

Mycroft’s expression was familiar, though not on him; Greg had seen it hundreds of time when he made connections at work. When he understood things people would rather he did not. _Guilt._ Swallowing hard, Greg spoke again.

“Were you telling them about me?” Greg asked. He let the question hang, feeling uncomfortable but resisting the urge to break the silence.

“I was,” Mycroft replied finally. “It is more difficult to invent a completely new person than to colour a story with someone familiar.”

Greg nodded. “And you chose me,” he said, inviting Mycroft to explain further.

“I have few options,” Mycroft replied.

Greg tilted his head. “Why did you choose me?”

“In the unlikely event I would have to ask for your help, it would be easier for you if my family believed real facts about you.”

The answer came quickly enough, and though Greg trusted Mycroft, he also knew Mycroft was an excellent liar when circumstances warranted it. And if he was protecting what Greg suspected he might be, Greg had no doubt he would want to keep it secret. As he watched Mycroft fight the instinct to look away, another thought came to mind.

“Even at such short notice,” Greg said slowly, wondering if he was prepared for the conversation he was about to unlock, “you could have hired someone to play me.”

“What?”

Greg was so surprised Mycroft didn’t say, “I beg your pardon?” he almost lost his train of thought.

“You could have hired someone,” Greg said. He frowned as another possibility occurred to him. “Or told your family we had broken up.”

“Had I told them we broke up, the previous harassment would have resumed,” Mycroft said.

“Okay,” Greg replied, “why not hire someone to be me?”

Mycroft sighed. “I admit I panicked. The idea did not even occur to me.”

Greg raised his eyebrows. His heart was racing. “Mycroft,” he said, leaving what he suspected was a lie to focus on the more important idea, “I have a theory.”

“You do?”

“Yes,” Greg said. He paused. “Can I share it with you?”

Mycroft’s eyes were wide, and Greg could see desperation wavering in his gaze.

“Please,” Mycroft whispered, the plea sending a shiver down Greg’s spine.

“My theory,” Greg murmured quietly, “involves both of us.” Mycroft nodded. “My theory is this. Your real reason for asking me to help you tonight, is the same as my reason for not minding that you asked me.”

“Trust?” Mycroft hazarded weakly.

“In a manner of speaking,” Greg replied. Carefully, he stepped closer. Leaning on the sofa made Mycroft short enough for Greg to look into his eyes, but he closed them as Greg moved in.

“Will you open your eyes?” Greg asked quietly. “For me?”

Mycroft breathed, but his eyes remained closed. Carefully, Greg reached up, his fingertips tracing Mycroft’s jaw. The shock of contact made Mycroft flinch, but he didn’t open his eyes.

“Gregory,” Mycroft whispered, his voice splintered with fear. “I do not regret my actions.”

“Good,” Greg replied. “Neither do I.”

They were already so close that he barely had to shift his weight to brush his lips across Mycroft’s mouth. If he was worried about the reaction he needn’t have been; the tiny, gasp from Mycroft was delicious. Greg lingered close, brushing again without truly settling their mouths together. Mycroft was not protesting but neither was he participating, and Greg needed more than that.

“Mycroft,” Greg whispered. “Your family is not here.”

“No,” Mycroft managed.

“This is because I want to,” Greg said. He leaned in again, the kiss a little firmer and Mycroft chased him as he eased away. _Yes._ “Is this why you chose me?” His heart thumped as he asked, “Because you wanted it to be true?”

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered on a shuddering breath. To Greg’s surprise and relief, Mycroft leaned into the next kiss and their mouths sealed, reminiscent of their time in the wine cellar. It was slow and deep and this time Greg didn’t have to pretend it didn’t mean anything. _Finally._

“Mycroft,” Greg gasped, when hands crept around his back, easing his body forward. It was very clear the arousal he’d been keeping back for propriety’s sake was matched by Mycroft, and he was very prepared for Greg to know about it.

“I should not have used you in such a manner,” Mycroft murmured in between kisses to Greg’s ear. “I am deeply sorry for my subterfuge.”

“We didn’t really have time to talk,” Greg replied in between gasping breaths. “Or we might have figured it out before your family – oh, God – before they even arrived.”

“And then we wouldn’t have had to lie,” Mycroft continued, kissing down Greg’s neck.

“We won’t have to at Christmas,” Greg said, tilting his neck, encouraging Mycroft to explore. “Except about everything that you already told them. But we won’t have to pretend.”

“True,” Mycroft gasped. “I’ll arrange your leave over New Year.”

Their conversation petered out for a long while. Hours passed, and when Greg finally spoke in complete sentence again it was well past midnight and they lay in Mycroft’s bed, acres of bare skin pressed together.

“Well it’s safe to say this was not how I thought my day would end,” Greg murmured. He was running one hand up and down Mycroft’s back, the soft skin endlessly fascinating.

“Nor I,” Mycroft replied. “I was not informed of my dinner arrangements until after lunch time.”

Greg hummed. “How did you think I’d react?”

Mycroft was silent for a long while. “I hoped you would react as you did,” he said quietly. “I considered a number of scenarios, but this was not one of them.”

“I thought you might have picked up on it a couple of times,” Greg said. “That my acting wasn’t actually acting.”

“I wondered,” Mycroft admitted. He almost spoke again, but closed his mouth.

“What?” Greg said.

“Forgive me,” Mycroft said, “however I did wonder if your lack of partner at home made the evening preferable to the alternative, even if it was not your preference.”

“That’s fair,” Greg said. “My place is cold and empty. And I have no food in.” He gathered Mycroft close. “And it’s true it seemed lonelier because there was nobody to share it. But it’s also true I would never in a thousand years have got up the courage to ask you out for a drink, let alone…” he swept one hand down Mycroft’s spine.

“Let alone?” Mycroft asked, arching into the touch.

“Let alone dreamed of this,” Greg admitted.

“Had I thought you would accept me I would have asked in a heartbeat,” Mycroft replied.

“Well we’re a pair, aren’t we?” Greg said. He turned his head, tilting Mycroft’s chin up so they could look each other in the eye. “Definitely not enough self-worth in this bed. But I think I can accept your interest in me if you’ll accept mine in you.”

Mycroft hesitated. “That seems a fair exchange,” he said slowly.

Greg yawned. “I’m exhausted,” he said. “Maybe we should sleep. I do want to talk about what happened, though. I want to know what you were thinking at a few key moments.”

Mycroft nodded, and still looking into his eyes the apprehension was clear. “Of course.”

“Not for anything bad,” Greg said, wincing at his terrible explanation. “I mean, now that we’re here, we can talk about it, right?”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft said. He looked down, pressing a kiss to Greg’s collarbone before he admitted, “I don’t want it to change. How you…feel about this.” A deep breath and he added, “About me.”

“It will not,” Greg said as emphatically as possible. Another finger tilting that chin up to him. He kept his eyes soft, allowing them to drift over Mycroft’s face before he spoke. “I want to know how your mind works,” he said. “I know a little bit, I think, from us working together, but this is different. And I get to ask you now. Not for point scoring, or to use the information for anything. Just because I’m interested. In you.”

“Very well,” Mycroft replied, and the uncertainty in his voice made Greg’s heart ache.

“Do you have questions for me?” Greg asked. “About, I dunno, what I was thinking when Anthea told me – or didn’t – what was happening? Or when I arrived, or met your mother, or in the wine cellar?”

Mycroft nodded, a spark of interest clear in his gaze.

“Same,” Greg said, smiling as Mycroft sized up that assessment.

“I am inexperienced in such personal matters,” Mycroft said.

“It’s fine,” Greg told him. “I might have dated other people-”

“- you’ve been married, Gregory-”

“-but I’ve never dated you,” Greg finished, ignoring the interruption. “And the one thing I can say is essential in every relationship is communication. Not assuming things. Do you think we can manage that?”

Mycroft thought about it. “Honest personal communication can be excruciating,” he murmured.

“Yep,” Greg replied. “Embarrassing, excruciating, awkward, frightening, hard work. But worth the effort.” He smiled. “You are worth the effort.” Mycroft looked unconvinced. “I can see we’ll have to work on that.”

“Tomorrow,” Mycroft said. “If it’s not an imposition I will ask Anthea to arrange a day of leave for us both.”

“Make it two,” Greg replied, “that way we can do the best two things about a new relationship.”

“Two?” Mycroft asked. “I thought we were going to…oh!”


End file.
